


dechiré

by jxniberries



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Tender Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, how has this not been a thing, pining!Nathalie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 11:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17120369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jxniberries/pseuds/jxniberries
Summary: on nights like these, when no amount of anything she does moves him from his place on the chaise, she does what any good assistant does.she offers herself to him.





	dechiré

**Author's Note:**

> listen...........i know i Literally just posted p*rn yesterday but i just watched style queen and HOW COME NO ONE'S FUCKING TALKIN ABOUT THE WAY NATHALIE HUGS GABRIEL? WHY DOES NO ONE MENTION HOW SAD SHE LOOKS EVERY TIME HE MENTIONS HIS WIFE? i can't believe y'all smh
> 
> those two have most definitely been fucking, nathalie's in love, and i am here to right everyone's wrongs

After spending many, _many_ years working under Gabriel, and even more than that being his friend, Nathalie likes to think she knows him – to an extent, that is. She was there when Audrey Bourgeois discovered him in their shitty studio office in the heart of _18éme arrondissement_ , dangling the promise of fame and worldly acclaim just within reach. She was the one who dutifully helped raise Adrien from childhood after Emilie’s—his _wife’s_ disappearance. She’s seen him through everything imaginable. It was bound to happen eventually. 

Their first time was months ago; they’d both had far too much to drink and awoke the following morning carrying some level of the same type of shame and regret; Gabriel swore up and down that it wouldn’t happen again, it _couldn’t_ happen again. They were business partners.

Two days later, they found themselves in his bed, again. Sober.

Neither of them acknowledges their circumstances lest it affects their work dynamic; outside of their infrequent trysts, Nathalie is able to maintain some degree of objectivity, of _professionalism_. It’s part of the job, she tells herself. She’s there to do a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

But for every night she spends beneath him, allowing him to ravish her through the early hours of the morning, her objectivity erodes away a little bit more until one day, it dawns on her that she’s been completely compromised. 

She doesn’t tell him.

Half out of the crippling shame of having caught feelings, and half because saying something means acknowledging it. Acknowledging it means ruining their nearly decade-long relationship. Ruining _that_ means—

She doesn’t tell him.

It’s hard, harder than she’ll ever let herself admit, but Nathalie stomachs it. For Gabriel’s sake.

The initial incident at his fashion show with Style Queen has left the entire company on edge, waiting restlessly for Gabriel’s next move that never comes. He’s hardly left his study for days, emerging only to eat – rarely – and shower. As far as Nathalie knows, he’s made himself a prisoner in his own home.

Tonight is no different. She’s just entered his private study with a cart of past catalogs as he’d previously requested when she sees him. With his shoulders hunched over and eyebrows pinched, Nathalie knows before he says a word. She leaves the cart and approaches him slowly from behind, loosely draping her arms over his shoulders and letting her forehead rest against the back of his head. He’s unmoving for only a moment before he slides a hesitant hand to rest atop hers.

On nights like these, when no amount of anything she does moves Gabriel from his place on the chaise, she does what any good assistant does. (That’s what she tells herself.)

She offers herself to him.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, Nathalie,” he says, a rueful smile playing on his lips while his thumb rubs against her knuckles. “You’re my assistant, not a who—”

“I _want_ to.”

It catches him by surprise, the way she cuts him off, but before Gabriel can offer some semblance of a protest Nathalie’s already come around him, kicking off her flats before straddling each side of his hips. His hands come to rest comfortably on the small of her back, tugging her close. He’s already growing hard under her and though she barely shifts, he exhales sharply through his nose.

“My job is to help you,” she breathes, sliding his jacket from his shoulders. Gabriel straightens his posture then, his gaze following Nathalie’s as she next begins to unbutton his dress shirt, removing it as well and allowing it to add to their growing pile of unwanted clothes. “So I’m helping you. That’s all this is.”

Liar.

She’s a horrible, terrible, no-good liar and she hates it.

She kisses him.

Gabriel yanks Nathalie’s blazer off of her and makes quick work of her blouse, groaning lowly against her lips when she arches toward him. No matter how much she may deny it, Gabriel does things to her that no other man has ever done before. He’s barely touched her, yet she reacts so readily to him, submitting to his every desire exactly as he pleases.

Reaching her arms behind her, Nathalie unclasps her bra in a single, perfect motion, tossing it across the room. The cool rush of air against her breasts elicits a shudder from her, to with Gabriel responds by cupping both of her breasts in his hands and squeezing. Her nipples peak under his touch and he chuckles against her lips, rolling the taut buds with his forefingers.

She grinds against him with a shivering sigh, lingering against the kiss only momentarily before she pulls away entirely, standing before Gabriel as she peels her own pants down her slender legs. It’s hardly an erotic show and it’s more so she can get back on him and _fuck_ him already, but Nathalie doesn’t miss the piercing, almost expectant gaze Gabriel fixes her with.

“What?” she asks, raising a curious brow as she toys with the waistband of her underwear – a pathetic piece of fabric, somehow passable as a thong. “Do you want a show?”

Gabriel gives an appraising nod. “I suppose you could, if you would like to.”

She does.

Her hips sway slowly, keeping tempo with an imaginary melody as she saunters back over to Gabriel. She runs her hands along every dip and curve of her body, arching sensually when he bites his lower lip. Nathalie doesn’t dare pull her thong down, not yet, wanting him to leave at least a little bit of it to suspense. Only when he reaches out to her, beckoning her to join him back on the chaise, does she remove them. 

Gabriel’s seen her naked dozens of times by now that she should be used to it, but the nervous flutter of her stomach still comes, especially when Gabriel slides a single, devious hand down between her legs, dragging a finger along her folds and marveling in her wetness.

“ _Merde_ , Nathalie, _look_ at you,” he tuts, withdrawing his hand and bringing the single, soaked digit to his lips and licking it clean. Her cheeks flush and she meets his gaze, and Gabriel cups the side of her face with his clean hand as he kisses her, far too sweetly for her liking.

Restless hands wander all over the expanse of Gabriel’s firm, toned chest and Nathalie recalls with expert accuracy what spots are most sensitive to him, where he enjoys being touched the most. They soon dance lower and lower down his torso, her fingertips kissing the waistband of his trousers and even then, Nathalie continues. She traces the outline of Gabriel’s cock with a hum, quite enjoying the way it twitches against her hands.  

“Nathalie, _really_ , you—”

“ _Tais-toi_.”

Obediently and without a word, Gabriel lifts his hips off the edge of the chaise when Nathalie unzips his trousers, pushing them and his boxers down his legs to fall in a puddle around his ankles. She descends to her knees, settling between Gabriel’s legs and pressing a flurry of kisses to his thighs. He sighs heavily, leaning back against the chaise and letting his eyes flutter shut.

It’s immoral, he tells himself. He’s _married_. He has Emilie.

 _Had_ Emilie.

Reason evades him when he thinks about it; she’s _gone_. She’s gone, and he’s going to have to accept it sooner or later. What he cannot do is keep taking advantage of Nathalie like this. She’s his closest friend. His _only_ friend. He cannot lose her.

Yet he chases after her, if only for the reminder that he’s still human.

Talking himself out of it is a losing battle yet he still tries, but when one of Nathalie’s perfectly manicured hands wrap around the base of his cock, Gabriel’s mind is swept clean of all coherent thought save for the warmth of her touching him. His hips buck upwards off the chaise and into her hand, to which Nathalie manages a small, coy smile. Dipping her head down between his legs, she parts her lips slightly, exhaling a slow, hot breath along the length of his shaft before her lips, in their plush, soft pink glory, wrap around the head of his cock.

Gabriel doesn’t stop her.

She’s slow in taking him into her mouth, as she always is. Some part of her still wishes to cherish these moments with Gabriel, even though the better part knows to file them away in her mind, as deeply as she can. The deeper, the better.

It’s easier to forget, that way.

“ _Merde_ , Nathalie,” he breathes, combing a trembling hand through her hair. He guides her, carefully, to where he wants and Nathalie lets him. When Gabriel’s hips begin to slowly fuck her throat in shameless pursuit of pleasure, she lets him do that, too, until he pulls away from her, murmuring something about not wanting to come until he’s inside her. Nathalie doesn’t pay attention. She hardly does anymore.

He doesn’t return the favor not because he doesn’t want to, but because she doesn’t let him. It’s their one rule during these things.

She’s here to make _him_ feel good for a while; not the other way around.

They’d stopped using protection after their fourth – _or had it been the fifth?_ – time together and, in a fluid, almost practiced motion, Nathalie rises once again so she can mount Gabriel. His cock is flushed and throbbing against her, and as much as she _loves_ the way he fills her _just_ right, curving perfectly against her walls, she doesn’t let anything more than a content sigh escape her lips.

Their lovemaking is mostly quiet as Nathalie rides him, with only the sounds of their skin slapping together and their occasional moans and breathless curses echoing around them. Gabriel’s hands deliver a harsh, quick swat to her asscheeks before he kneads the flesh greedily in his hands.

“ _Merde, Emilie—_ ”

Nathalie ignores the pang in her chest, forces the tears away from her eyes. It happens, she reminds herself. It’s not his fault. 

He just misses her. It’s not his fault.

Lightly scratching her nails down Gabriel’s bare chest, Nathalie allows herself a long, drawn-out moan when his cock presses against _that_ bundle of nerves deep inside her, the one she can never reach on her own.

“Gabriel— _ouais,_ just like that,” she gasps, pathetic mewls forcing their way past her throat. Gabriel obliges, propelling his hips upward against Nathalie’s relentlessly. With one hand grasping onto her breast, the other slides down between her legs to where she needs it most, quivering when she _finally_ allows herself the release she’s so desperately craved since they’ve started.  

When her orgasm takes her, she’s quiet. There is only the stilling of her movements, the tensing of her body on top of Gabriel; her lips fall open in a silent cry, eyebrows knitted close together as she rides out her high against him, her pussy tightening and fluttering around his cock. It’s the sight of her that drives Gabriel over the edge and he comes with a low hiss, spilling himself inside her. Nathalie lets him.

“Good girl, Nathalie,  _Dieu_ , you feel good.”  

Nathalie comes down from her glorious high with a soft, breathless moan and she falls lax against Gabriel’s chest naturally. He cradles her against him, his arms around her petite frame feeling oddly… _right_. They don’t usually stay together for very long after their sessions because Nathalie doesn’t allow it, and she knows the longer she stays only hammers the final nail into her coffin. 

She doesn’t move. For now.

“Thank you,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of her ear.

“Of course, sir.”

And so begins the cycle of regret.

Again.

**Author's Note:**

> i only proofread a little bit so sorry for any mistakes hsfkjds
> 
> come scream at me on twt @/jxniberries !


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